Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1)
Page 22
His mother's voice.
Calling him home.
With his face buried in the cool white sand, Lewis sucked in one last breath that never left his lungs. His hand relaxed, resting delicately on Clinton's arm.
A clap of thunder split the heavens.
The sky wept.
Epilogue
The storm brought enough rain to aid the firefighters, keeping the flames from engulfing most of the neighborhood.
With the fire defeated, and with the rising of the sun, the search and investigation began. What was found startled and confused everyone. The few survivors all told similar tales of being attacked by their friends, families, and neighbors; stories of crazed people eating the flesh of others, like a pack of wild animals, then without reason, falling dead to the ground. Mutilated bodies were recovered from the streets and homes, half-eaten and torn to shreds, validating their insane claims. Men, women, and children were all affected by whatever blight had struck the peaceful hamlet.
Several bodies were also recovered from the burned-out woods. Two of the three missing boys from a week earlier were among the dead, identified later through dental records. The third, Andy Reed, was never identified, but a headless, burned body was found and assumed to be him; the boy’s teeth were too destroyed for proper identification.
Sadly, one child from the neighborhood was never found. A body never recovered.
Trees were toppled as if a massive explosion had occurred in the woods. The story of a possible explosion prompted some folks to spread rumors of a chemical attack, most likely from Iran or the Russians. Others claimed it was tainted water that caused the people to go insane, or a military experiment gone wrong, but no evidence could be found to corroborate any of these conspiracy theories. Officially, nobody, not even the proper authorities, could explain the events that had taken place at Poisonwood Estates. Tall tales and theories abounded among the townsfolk.
But by far the most intriguing tale, had to be that of the tree.
On the morning following the explosion, after the fire is in check, a fireman discovers the remains of little Jerry Harris. He also finds one other body—a child as well—in a strange circular clearing, at the base of a peculiar tree, the apparent epicenter of the destruction. The man calls for his fellow firefighters, shouting for them to come see the find. When they arrive and gather around the man, they see the charred corpses: one at the edge of a perfect, burn-free circle of white sand, another resting in the sand at the firefighter's feet. Then, they notice the man staring up into the strange tree.
The tree stands in a shallow crater, as if it has fallen from a great height. At the base of the trunk, just above the line of sand, an unusual spiral symbol with broken lines is carved into the wood, inches from the burned foot of the small corpse—a circular, maze-like pattern.
Unlike everything around it—even the corpse at its base—the tree is not smoldering, not a single tendril of smoke rises from its dark form.
The group follows the fireman's gaze up through the black, bony branches of the odd tree, and they see what has captured the man's attention. Miraculously, untouched by the fire that has destroyed everything, a single leaf hangs from the end of a high branch.
A beautiful green leaf, with vibrant crimson striations.
Alive.
A distant train whistle shatters the silence of the blackened woods, wailing the song of a lost child.
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Craig Wesley Wall
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About the Author
Craig Wesley Wall is the author of short stories, novellas, and novels, primarily in the horror and thriller genres.
A lifelong horror enthusiast, Craig’s work is the culmination of too many hours spent watching scary movies and reading books by such authors as Stephen King, Robert R. McCammon, Brian Keene, and many others.
Craig resides in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest with his wife and a bevy of dogs and cats. He’s constantly in search of the elusive Bigfoot, all the while convincing his neighbors that he’s not one.
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www.craigwesleywall.com
Also by Craig Wesley Wall
The Prison Farm
SKINNERS